


I see Colours, I Don’t Hear the Noise

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: You Wanna be Alive just to Watch the Bruises Heal [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Deaf Character, Deaf!Feuilly, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel had started visual descriptions of voices when Feuilly asked him about how their teacher spoke.<br/>‘Musical’ means nothing. Neither do any of the words usually used to describe the human voice or sound at all. He’s left quite unsure how to go about it.<br/>It’s not impossible, of course, thinking about how things sound visually. You can describe colour through feelings if you try hard enough to concentrate, but sounds aren’t feelings.<br/>They’re in the back ground, just there. Usually they’re insignificant, recognisable even though you pay little attention to them properly.<br/>He concentrates a little harder, drawing the woman’s voice into his mind. He can see her, with her chestnut hair pulled back in a low ponytail that curls down to nearly her waist, and her smile and the way she writes. But he can’t explain how she sounds.<br/>Feuilly’s pressed his lips together, looking awkward for having even bothered to ask.<br/>Try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I see Colours, I Don’t Hear the Noise

Bahorel isn’t creative like Feuilly is. He can’t come in - after a day spent bent over a canvas, until his fingers cramp and his back seizes up from being in one position, painstakingly restoring the piece before him – throw down his coat and plan out a painting of his own even though he has to be out again in 3 hours’ time and still hasn’t eaten since breakfast.  
He’s always been more physical in that aspect, actions speak louder than words and all that.  
But that doesn’t mean he’s not creative in his own way. Not an arty way or a wordy way but in a thoughtful way, analysing and viewing items, people. Interpreting them and their emotions or meanings.  
Feuilly says it’s a gift.

Bahorel had started visual descriptions of voices when Feuilly asked him about how their teacher spoke.  
‘Musical’ means nothing. Neither do any of the words usually used to describe the human voice or sound at all. He’s left quite unsure how to go about it.  
It’s not impossible, of course, thinking about how things sound visually. You can describe colour through feelings if you try hard enough to concentrate, but sounds aren’t feelings.  
They’re in the back ground, just there. Usually they’re insignificant, recognisable even though you pay little attention to them properly.  
He concentrates a little harder, drawing the woman’s voice into his mind. He can see her, with her chestnut hair pulled back in a low ponytail that curls down to nearly her waist, and her smile and the way she writes. But he can’t explain how she sounds.  
Feuilly’s pressed his lips together, looking awkward for having even bothered to ask.  
Try.  
‘Alright, let’s try this. She sounds like… You know flowers on a summer’s day, when they have dew on them and they sway in the breeze. That’s what she sounds like.’  
Feuilly’s lips pull apart in a wide grin, his front left tooth missing.  
Bahorel grins right along with him.  
It’s not long before he feels confident enough to describe his parents. He watches them, listens intently as they speak, to the point where his mother asks if something’s wrong.  
She’s like a blanket, he decides. Her voice is deep but soft and it cocoons you in a warm feeling. Most of the time. But even when she’s scolding you there’s still a feeling of that warmth there.  
His father is colder, in contrast, rougher. Gravelly is a word often used to describe voices like his, and Bahorel drags Feuilly over to a slate drive way to walk up and down the stones as they slip and slide over one another beneath their feet.  
He points to the ground.  
‘Feel that? That’s how Dad sounds.’ Feuilly bends to run his hand along the rough path, pressing his fingers down with some kind of fascination.  
‘Really?' Bahorel nods with a crooked grin.

It goes from there. Whenever they meet new people, new teachers or friends, Bahorel writes their name, their description and then listens. Listens and thinks, until he can write how their voice sounds.  
He improves. Sounds become more abstract, less what reminds him of the person and more what he truly thinks their voice represents.  
Bahorel already knows what he’s supposed to sound like. Feuilly had asked his sister once.  
Jacqui pondered it, pouting a little as she concentrated.  
“Velvet.” She says, then nods in satisfaction. “Bahorel sounds like velvet.”

Going to University brings a whole new set of voices. New course mates who come and go and will probably never return. Usually he doesn’t think too much about them, and usually Feuilly doesn’t ask.  
When they go to Les Amis however, the second meeting where Feuilly doesn’t almost kill someone, Feuilly turns to him as they’re leaving.  
‘What does Combeferre sound like?’  
‘Um… He kind of washes over you, like waves but not… He doesn’t sound like water. More like…’ He thinks about it for a moment. ‘He sounds like a breeze feels against your cheek. But sometimes, he’s a lot harsher. You know, like those sharp winds you get in winter that suddenly hit you and almost send you stumbling.’  
‘Was that when he was shouting down that other guy.’  
‘Maybe.’ Bahorel laughs at the memory of Combeferre, apparently demure, geeky Combeferre suddenly getting up and completely taking the man’s argument to shreds. He had been deserving it, to be fair, but Bahorel couldn’t help feeling a little bit sorry for him being subject to such a ruthless dissection.  
‘That’s interesting…’  
‘His laugh’s different though. His laugh sounds like paper, when you writing on it? You know what feeling?’ A nod. ‘That’s how he laughs.’  
‘He laughs in his shoulders and chest. Through his jaw.’  
‘I hadn’t noticed that. You always look at laughs?’  
‘They tell you a lot about a person. Courfeyrac’s laugh is open and passionate. It look like it spills from him and lights him up.’  
‘Light… That’s a good way of putting it.’  
‘Go on then.’ Feuilly watches him as Bahorel thinks. ‘What does Courfeyrac sound like, I can just see you know.’  
You summed it up pretty well. Light, you know how lamps get when they’ve been on too long?’  
‘From the time you burnt yourself on one?’  
Bahorel rolls his eyes.  
‘Not burning, warm. Courfeyrac is warm, I’m sure you know that, but he sounds warm too. His laugh… His laugh flickers like a flame.’ Feuilly’s smiling, it’s small and timid, like he’s suppressing it somehow. ‘I’ll have to think about Joly and Enjolras.’

He does think about them. All through the next meeting as Enjolras talks he’s trying to place what he reminds him of. Enjolras’s voice hits you, somehow, it’s powerful but it’s not necessarily a bad powerful, most of the time. It should almost grip you, he supposes, but it’s an adequate description.  
‘Electricity.’ He says eventually to Feuilly one evening over dinner. Feuilly frowns.  
‘Excuse me?’  
‘Enjolras. He’s like electricity. You know when you get a shock from something? He‘s like that.’  
‘I’m not sure if that’s a complement or not…’ Feuilly laughs.  
‘It’s not an unpleasant voice though. It’s nice to listen to, it’s just very powerful. It’s a good speaking voice.’  
Joly had required less thought, but more explaining.  
‘He has a round voice.’ He starts. ‘You know marbles? When you have a lot of them all laid out and you run your hand over them. That kind of feeling. But it’s not a cold voice, it’s not a glassy voice. It’s warm and reassuring. So marbles, but heated? Like they’ve been in the sun.’  
Feuilly glances at his hands for a moment.  
‘I think I get it? Like pebbles?’  
‘Yeah.’ Bahorel shrugs. ‘Something like that.’

As the year progresses more students join, some on more permanent basis than others. L’Aigle is the first, Bahorel finally getting round to talking to the guy at the back of his lectures. L’Aigle is tall, stocky, with a shaved head and dark eyes and wide smile that he shares freely. Bahorel flops down next to him one day and talks, and they don’t stop.  
L’Aigle shares a similar taste in women, sport and bars to him. It’s a wonder they haven’t met before.  
He knows as soon as he meets him that L’Aigle is going to become a permanent feature in his life.  
He begins listening.  
“So your name is L’Aigle?” A nod. “And you’re from Meaux?”  
“Mhmm, maybe I should be testing you.”  
“Has no one ever commented upon that?”  
“No..?”  
Bahorel coins the nickname Bossuet, it sticks remarkably well. When he takes Bossuet along to the meetings it’s how he’s introduced and no one asks again when they find out his real name.  
It’s about the time that Bossuet walks in the Joly starts going bright red. Courfeyrac even mentions that he’s going to match his hair if he keeps it up.  
Bossuet’s sat next to him, laughing at nothing in particular. Joly is sitting as far away as possible (Bahorel fears he may fall off his seat) and looking like he’s furiously trying to quell the rising blood that’s warming his cheeks.  
He never hears the end of it.  
When Bossuet asks, at the end of the meeting, if he might bring along someone else next week, however, and then mentions that: “She’s Musichetta, we’re… Sort of dating.” No one hesitates to offer to walk Joly home.  
Musichetta is lovely, she flirts with everyone in a way that suggests she doesn’t know she’s doing it, and laughs almost as much as Bossuet. Bahorel can see why they’re dating.  
Chetta, as she’s nicknamed, is tall and curvy, with tanned skin, full lips and curly hair down to her waist. She jingles when she walks, and when she leans forward to make a point to Enjolras.  
Bahorel thought Joly couldn’t get any redder than he had last week. He’d been so very, very wrong.  
Musichetta’s voice is simpler to describe that Bossuet’s. It’s warm, but there’s a fierce fiery edge to it.  
‘What does she sound like then? I bet it’s a beautiful voice.’ Feuilly leans his chin on his hand as he watches Chetta talk to Joly, throwing her head back to laugh.  
‘Sand. You know on the beach in summer, and the sand gets so hot you can’t quite stand on it. But it’s comforting, it feels nice to the touch, slightly soft. But there’s an edge to it that’s harsher.’  
‘I was right, that is a beautiful voice.’ Feuilly smiles.  
‘Her laugh is different though. I promise I’m not getting this from what she’s wearing but… You know how bracelets feel against your skin? Cold and slightly cutting?’  
‘No? How do you know?’  
‘Because men can wear bracelets. And Jacqui is hard to say no to…’  
‘Right. So it’s a loud laugh?’  
‘Yeah, loud and pleasant but still quite cutting.’  
‘And Bossuet? Or have you still not pinned him down?’  
Bossuet is more difficult. He has a loud voice, not unlike his own Bahorel imagines, but there’s a real warmth to it and a deep rounded edge that’s been so far hard to describe though other senses.  
“He’s… Warm. Like when you breathe on your hands to warm them in winter. But he’s… Not that simple. He’s like those summer nights you get sometime where they’re warm and deep and never seem like they’ll end? You remember the ones I mean.’  
‘Yeah…’ Feuilly’s watch as Bossuet ruffles Joly’s hair. ‘They’re an eclectic trio aren’t they?’  
‘What?’  
‘Those three. Don’t tell me you don’t think something’s going to happen?’  
‘With three of them?’  
‘Polyamory is a thing Bahorel.’  
‘But Joly seems so… Conservative in that way…’  
It takes only two weeks before the three of them arrive together, Musichetta’s arm slung around Joly’s shoulder as she laughs along with him. She leaves red lipstick on his cheek.  
It takes even less time after that before the trio announce that Joly is now dating them. There are cheers and calls for a toast and Joly is smiling at the pair.  
They all complement each other really, Joly worries while Bossuet is relaxed and easy going. All three have a good sense of humour, and smile the most out of any of the rest of the group. Chetta is the loudest of the three, and the boys seem to revel in her personality, watching her as she moves and talks. 

In September Bossuet and Courfeyrac bring, between them, a new member. They’ve gone to find some refreshments when they return with a small, rather dishevelled looking man. He’s gangly, like he never quite grew into himself. His hair is the colour of sand, and falls over his eyes.  
“We found him on one of the tables outside. Rather, Bossuet did. He’s in Bossuet’s class apparently.” Courfeyrac explains as he sits the newcomer down. He’s a year younger than Bahorel, Bossuet re-doing the second year of his course. “This is Marius Pontmercy.” Marius raises a hand in hello, his blush almost covering his freckles as every ones attention is turned to him.  
“H-Hi…”  
Marius, as it turns out, is homeless at this point, having been double booked on his tenancy for accommodation this year, Bossuet comments on how he, also, had the same problem and is now sleeping on Joly’s couch (Bahorel doubts that). Marius had been intending to stay in the library over-night and to hunt around in the morning. Courfeyrac puts a quick halt to any such proceedings and offers up his spare room with an immediacy that almost knocks Marius off his chair.  
“I couldn’t possibly-“  
“But I insist. I require a roommate and I’d rather have you than someone else.”  
“A complete stranger you mean?” Bahorel comments dryly. Courfeyrac hushes him and begins making plans with the deer-in-headlights Marius.  
Bahorel can’t help but laugh.  
‘He’s like a little rabbit.’ Bahorel says to Feuilly, who snorts.  
‘Wouldn’t you be if you were seized upon by Courfeyrac in one of his moods?’  
Bahorel admits that, yes, he might given how overwhelming Courfeyrac can be when you’re not used to him.  
Marius also, it turns out later, is a rather large fan on Napoleon. Bahorel has never seen a room go so quiet in his life, as it does when Marius first states this at the second meeting. Enjolras has a look on his face that says he might later contemplate murder should Marius put another foot out of line, Courfeyrac is stifling a laugh that says he already knew, and Combeferre looks like he might be about to shoot down whatever Marius says next.  
And he does.  
With the same efficiency seen before.  
It’s a wonder Marius ever comes back to the meetings, but he manages somehow, Bahorel suspects it has something to do with Courfeyrac who is fast become attached to him.  
On the way to the fourth meeting Bahorel is sufficiently confident to explain how Marius sounds.  
‘Like the grass beneath your fingers. Kind of whispery. But also like the summer sun on your face. There’s a nice warm edge when he’s not arguing with Enjolras and Combeferre or being pestered by Courfeyrac.’  
Feuilly thinks it over, stretching his hands out by his sides as if imagining the grass there. His head tilts back ever so slightly. A small smile that Bahorel recognises so well from when Feuilly manages to understand something properly. Whether it’s a new subject, a sound, a concept, Feuilly always looks so delighted that Bahorel can’t help but smile along with him.  
‘It’s nice…’ Feuilly says finally.

Marius, around December, brings along a new friend. Musichetta is delighted at the appearance of another female in the mix of their group.  
Eponine is short, her curves accentuated by her slight boniness. Her hair is dark and messy, swept over to one side where it often falls over one fierce amber eye. Her lips are red and twist into scowls or pouts just so.  
She doesn’t appreciate Enjolras’s sentiments, and tells him so more than once.  
She’s wearing a long skirt, and oversized jacket and biker boots. Feuilly says she laughs like she shouldn’t be.  
Marius knows her from staying in the same block of flats as her family over summer, before the landlord got a better offer.  
She also notices Bossuet, Musichetta and Joly’s situation far quicker than Marius did – which had been a rather amusing conversation with a lot of ‘but how does that work?’ on Marius’s part and a lot of Chetta looking like she might actually tell him in full detail.  
Eponine and Chetta get on well, they have similar attitudes and interests, though Eponine isn’t as interested as the political side of the group. She does, however, agree whole heartedly with Courfeyrac about the need for a karaoke night – which are apparently a ‘thing’. No one but Enjolras is going to protest too strongly and so that Saturday is spent in a bar that’s holding an open mic night.  
Singing brings a new dynamic. Usually you can tell, roughly, how someone is going to sing when they speak. Eponine, however, is much different.  
‘Her voice is harsh, it’s very cutting.’ Bahorel had said. ‘Like ice cubes or metal between your fingers. It’s quite shielded.’  
When she gets up on the stage and opts for Streets of London as her song her voice changes entirely. It’s still cold but it’s softer, there’s no shielding anymore rather rawer as she sits on a stool and sings the song like she wrote it.  
‘She’s different.’ He tells Feuilly as they get drinks later on.  
‘Different?’  
‘When she sings. It’s… Like the night and the moon and the first flakes of snow falling. Still cold but less cutting than before.’  
‘Christ… Do you love her or something?’  
‘You can shut up, I’m telling the truth.’  
Bahorel cuffs his friend around the ear, going back to where the group are deciding what to do next.  
Combeferre steps up to sing, a folky piece that Courfeyrac complains about later as ‘no one’s singing anything fun!’ Bahorel sings a piece of his own, smooth and jazzy and then joins Musichetta in a duet that has them both with their arms around each other laughing away. She later sings ‘Take me or Leave me’ with Eponine and Bahorel’s not sure is Bossuet looks delighted or terrified. He also, it turns out, has an excellent voice for karaoke nights.  
Marius has been staring at the woman behind the bar for most of the night, Feuilly’s eyes follow his gaze and he nudges Bahorel.  
‘I think Marius has a bit of a crush.’  
‘Christ, is he still staring at the blonde? Why hasn’t he just asked for her number already I mean… Seriously.’  
‘Not everyone is as confident as you Bahorel.’ Feuilly raises an eyebrow.  
‘That explains why he’s been steadfastly avoiding going on stage all evening then.’ Bahorel contemplates a moment. ‘I think he needs a hand.’  
‘Bahorel if you go over there and ask her out I swear…’  
‘I wasn’t going to ask her for him, just going to see how he’ll react…’  
‘Bahorel.’ Feuilly folds his arms.  
‘I’m just going to invite her to a meeting, calm down.’  
Feuilly insists on coming with him because ‘she is rather pretty and I don’t want you getting distracted from your task.’  
Bahorel tuts and buys him a drink, shoving it into his still signing hands.  
“Good evening.” He leans on the bar, smiling. “You look like an interesting lady.”  
“Not interest in going on a date.” The girl says, giving him a dismissive smile.  
“You’ve got me wrong, my friend and I here are part of a student group. A political group in fact. We’re looking for new members.”  
“You’re that group over there?” She nods to where Courfeyrac is trying to drag Enjolras onto the stage.  
“Yes… That’s our leader and our third founder… He gets a little excited about things. But anyway, it’s very interesting, we have a laugh we do some serious stuff and it would be a delight to get some new face involved.”  
“I’ll think about it.” The girl is still watching the group with sky blue eyes. She hands him his drink.  
“I’ll give you the details. I didn’t catch your name? I’m Bahorel and this is Feuilly.”  
“Cosette.”

Cosette comes along to the meetings 2 weeks later, and Bahorel thinks Marius is going to actually faint he goes so red. He’d spent the entirety of last week’s meeting moping over the girl, to the point where Enjolras nearly kicked him out for talking about her ‘goddamn hair’ one time too many.  
Cosette is wearing a blouse and a floral skirt quite unlike her bar uniform, and her hair is in loose blonde waves around her shoulders and down her back. She smiles confidently, introduces herself to everyone and butts in every now and then. Eponine keeps giving her odd little looks.  
It takes another three weeks before Marius actually asks her out, and even then it’s only because Courfeyrac threatens to do it himself if he doesn’t ‘hurry up and tell her already.’  
It’s more amusing than it should be, because Cosette has been blatantly flirting with Marius almost since she arrived, giving him little looks from where she sat around the table. Bahorel later finds out she was planning on asking herself the following week, but Marius had got there first.  
They make a cute couple, and they’re good for each other. Everyone likes Cosette, for her confidence and bubbly personality and the fact that she stands up to anyone.  
‘Does she have a nice voice? She looks like she should.’ Feuilly stirs his coffee, Bahorel doesn’t comment on how much Feuilly seems to be surviving on coffee these days. ‘Is her laugh musical? It looks it but I might be wrong…’  
‘It’s very musical. She’s very musical.’ He’s been thinking about her voice for a long time. Feuilly blows across the top of his coffee as he curls up in the corner of the sofa. ‘Birds. Little birds like sparrows. Sometimes they catch the breeze, and her voice soars like that sometimes when she’s really happy. But then sometimes it wavers a bit, not for any real reason, but that’s more like flowers when they bend in a light breeze. It’s very pleasant most of the time.’  
Feuilly nods thoughtfully and sips his drink.  
‘Can you fall in love with people for their voices?’  
‘Can you what?’  
‘Fall for someone’s voice?’  
‘Probably not in love but I guess it’s possible… Some people do have very listenable voices that you just want to hear over again.’  
‘I bet it’s interesting.’ Feuilly says, then returns to his drink.  
‘Do you want to?’ Bahorel asks.  
Feuilly thinks it over for a minute, pulling a face as the coffee burns his tongue.  
‘Maybe. But I don’t think it would work really.’  
‘I’ve never asked why you don’t use a hearing aid.’  
‘Profound deafness, the type I have isn’t really treatable. Besides I think by now if I did I would be overwhelmed by how many sounds there are. You don’t notice them, but everything makes a sound and they’d all…’ Feuilly raises his hands slightly to his ears. ‘I don’t think I’d like it. I’d like to hear you though.’  
‘Nah, I’m not that interesting.’  
‘People say you have a nice singing voice, I’d like hear you sing. But other than that I don’t feel I’m missing anything because of my deafness.’

The year goes on, summer comes and goes, Musichetta announces that she’s moving in with Joly and Bossuet – a proclamation that is met with cheers and the offer of champagne from Courfeyrac. For Halloween, despite Enjolras’s protestations, the group dress up as various potentially scary creatures.  
Bahorel finds himself a work placement once he leaves Uni, something Feuilly delights in teasing him about. Bahorel doesn’t particularly enjoy working in law, even less the shitty cases he sometimes has to deal with, but it brings a steady income in the least.  
Feuilly, still working far too many hours, does at least have one job he enjoys now. One of the museums was in need to a restorer, and willing to offer up training. He’d jumped at the chance, Bahorel had never seen him so excited, and managed to get himself onto the placement. Bahorel still says every now and then that he should quit his other jobs but Feuilly says the apprenticeship doesn’t provide enough yet. It’s a start, he supposes.  
The group branches out, moves on from University classrooms and into a rented room in the basement of a bar Bossuet knows the owner of. It’s cosy, large enough for all of them and allows the social side to flourish, much to Courfeyrac’s delight.  
The membership remains regular, a few others coming and going but never staying long enough to get to know, not properly.  
It’s surprising that Enjolras is the next to introduce someone to the group. 

How he met Jehan is never specified, but Bahorel can’t help but wonder, given the two men’s very dissimilar tastes in just about everything.  
Jehan is quiet and shy, with a dress sense that speaks louder than he does. His jeans are almost always brightly coloured, or patterned if not, and his hair is long and braided, sometimes with the addition of flowers if the mood takes him. His skin is lines with poetry and words.  
And Courfeyrac has been staring at him for the entirety of the meeting.  
He looks almost like Marius did when he saw Cosette the first time, which is an expression Bahorel never expected to see on Courfeyrac, the fun one who’s more than willing to wingman for you if he can get someone out of it too.  
When the meeting finishes and Courfeyrac still hasn’t contributed anything of substance, unlike his usual interjections every two minutes with statistics or some other useful snippet, Bahorel leans across to elbow him in the ribs and murmur a high pitched ‘Can you feel the lurve tonight’ into his ear. Courfeyrac swats at him, narrowly missing his shoulder and mutters something that sounds rude.  
Jehan can hold his ground, they find out the next week when someone feels the need to make a comment on his fashion.  
He reminds Bahorel a little of Combeferre, only more of a dreamer than a philosopher.  
It becomes clear that Jehan’s there to stay when he brings a long a friend. Bahorel thinks at first Grantaire is Jehan’s boyfriend (ex, as it turns out), and by Courfeyrac’s face he thinks the same. Any trace of disappointment is quickly erased off of his smiling face, however, as he steers the pair around the room.  
Grantaire turns out to be a pretty great guy. He’s shorter than Bahorel, and looks like he probably should be stocky, but has ended up rather skinnier than intended. His hair is unruly, his eyes a searching blue rimmed in dark circles.  
Bahorel knows they’re going to be friends right away.  
Grantaire makes jokes, might be able to out-drink Bahorel, and is even willing to maybe to boxing with him some time.  
Feuilly comes back late, chucking his keys on the telephone table and stretching out his spine as he drops his bag and takes his shoes off with his feet – it’s something he only ever does when he’s too tired to care anymore.  
Bahorel gestures to the floor in front of him.  
Massage is something he never expected to be good at, but Feuilly comes in one too many night with the muscles in his back knotted and his neck so stiff he can hardly sleep. Feuilly settles on a cushion with minimal complaint, which is also never particularly a good sign.  
As he works Feuilly stretches out his hands and wrists, bending his fingers in turn.  
‘Courfeyrac texted.’ He signs when he’s finished, Feuilly cocks his head to one side as he stands. ‘He’s inviting us to Jehan and Grantaire’s inaugural party. Should be fun, music, drinking, the usual kind of stuff.’ Feuilly nods with a smile.  
‘You and Grantaire are getting on well.’ He comments.  
‘So are you, you were even teaching him the alphabet.’  
‘He’s interested, in the way I perceive things and… He’s defiantly an artist.’ Feuilly smiles.  
‘Jehan says he sounds like the rain.’  
‘Is that true?’  
Bahorel thinks on it a moment.  
‘Yes, it’s a stormy voice. You know when he comes out with things it kind of hits you, like when you step out and it’s windy and the rain kind of hits you in the face? Like that. His laugh is like rain too, Jehan was very good with his descriptions.’  
‘How is his laugh like rain?’ Feuilly turns is head slightly. ‘It looks very genuine.’  
‘It kind of patters, most laughs flow but his doesn’t really. It’s like the first spots of rain, slow and sporadic.’  
‘I think that sums how it looks up too…’ Feuilly nods. ‘What about Jehan, you haven’t told me about him yet.’  
‘He surprised me the other day with that outburst. Usually he’s very soft spoken you see, kind of like feathers, very smooth. But then he took down that guy and it was… You know frost? And it’s kind of soft, but it bites quite harshly? It was very surprising really.’  
‘He likes poetry doesn’t he?’  
‘He comes out with these random quotes every now and then, and every time he does Courfeyrac goes slightly pink.’  
‘I wondered why he was doing that.’ Feuilly laughs. ‘Courfeyrac really likes him doesn’t he?’  
‘He does, I’ve never seen him actually lost for words.’

Bahorel wanders into the kitchen early, mainly because Feuilly can be noisy when he wants to be and has successfully dropped almost the entire box of cereal.  
He doesn’t notice Bahorel at first, as he tries to clean everything up, the half handful of cereal he’s picked up jumping from his hand as he registers the other’s presence.  
‘Morning.’ Bahorel signs, turning his head slightly. ‘What the hell happened here?’  
‘I dropped the cereal?’ Feuilly says, after dumping the handful he’d had in the bin and dusting off his hand. ‘It wasn’t much of a spillage.’  
He holds himself strangely as he asks if Bahorel wants coffee, wedging the jar between his side and his right arm to open it.  
‘What’s wrong?’ Bahorel asks eventually. Feuilly spoons coffee into their mugs before answering.  
‘Nothing.’  
‘So you’re not using your right hand why?’  
‘Because I am slightly ambidextrous? I used to be more but school forced me to choose a hand.’  
‘Does your hand hurt again?’ Feuilly lets out a small sigh and turns his attention to the kettle. Bahorel leans against the counter next to him, so that Feuilly can’t ignore him. ‘I told you to get it checked out.’  
‘I haven’t had time. Besides, it’s nothing.’  
‘It’s enough to get you using your left hand and dropping things. It clearly is something.’ Feuilly pulls a face. ‘For someone who relies on their hands you’re remarkably lax about their up keep.’  
‘It’s worse in the morning’s that’s all. It’ll get better in a bit.’ Feuilly goes to pick up the kettle, wincing as he grips it. Bahorel touches his hand. ‘Fine.’ Feuilly scowls as he lets Bahorel pour the water. ‘But only because I want you to stop complaining.’

‘It’s called Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.’ Feuilly tells him, chucking the leaflet onto his lap as he passes. ‘It’ll get better if I rest it but I have a big piece to finish at work so that’s not going to happen.’  
‘Wait what?’  
Feuilly gestures to his hand.  
‘Compression of the nerve here. May cause numbness, tingling and pain and eventual weakening of the hand, if I’m lucky.” He covers his face with his hands briefly. ‘I just can’t have this.’  
Bahorel rubs his shoulders gently and Feuilly relaxes, just a little.  
‘You still want to go out tonight?’  
Feuilly sighs.  
‘Yeah, it might be good. At least I might be able to get drunk.’

Feuilly’s smiling, which is a good start. Jehan leads him in side steps and spins and little hops that are, almost, in time to the beat. Feuilly’s only stepped on Jehan once, setting them both laughing. Jehan shifts his feet to the side, then holds out his hands in a gesture for Feuilly to try and then moves on to the next, stringing them together as they go.  
‘Looks complicated.’ Bahorel comments as Feuilly collapses next to him.  
‘Jehan just tapped out the beat, and once I’d got the first couple of steps it was just following him.’ Feuilly’s chuckle is breathy.  
‘You look happier.’ Bahorel smiles. Feuilly leans his head back, the corners of his lips turning up.  
‘I am. I needed something to take my mind off things. And, as usual, you were right.’  
‘Always am.’ Bahorel grins, stretching his arms back. Feuilly elbows him in the ribs, and he lets out a small ‘oof’.  
‘Don’t get cocky.’

**Author's Note:**

> As a continuation of the previous piece. I just really wanted to be able to describe all the Amis's voices in visual/sensory terms and then that devolved into domesticity and stuff...  
> Title lyrics from Synaesthesia by Andrew McMahon 
> 
> Also, I forgot but it was Grantaire's birthday Friday!  
> I have proper birthdays for Les Amis in this one, do not ask me why:  
> Enjolras – August 13th 1981  
> Grantaire – November 1st 1980  
> Jehan – March 29th 1981  
> Courfeyrac – February 15th 1981  
> Combeferre – October 24th 1980  
> Bahorel – September 26th 1979  
> Feuilly – July 17th 1980  
> Lesgle – February 29th 1980  
> Joly – April 19th 1981  
> Marius – May 28th 1981  
> Cosette – June 7th 1982  
> Eponine – December 4th 1981  
> Musichetta – June 29th 1980


End file.
